Austin was still looking at the book.
“There’s an explicit sex scene that follows,” he said. “Written, I suspect, by someone who has never actually had sex-the anatomy seems wrong here and there-but she’s read about it with great interest.”
Dagmar kept her attention on her plate. “Why do I think,” she said, “that a thousand years from now, the only thing about me that will survive, in some database somewhere, is this fanfic? ”
“Once the other players found out the sort of thing Simone was writing,” Austin continued, “they began to write parodies. They’re pretty merciless, actually.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“I noticed Simone stopped posting after a while.” Austin turned to his other bookmark. “My favorite is a lesbian scene. Let me just give you the flavor of it.”
She snatched the book from his hand and put it on the bench seat beside her. He sighed.
“I hope the people in Bayangan Prajurit never see any of this,” Dagmar said.
“How are they, by the way? ”
“Doing very well. They sent photos of the sidewalks they’d paved.”
Paved with Charlie’s money. Six days after Dagmar’s escape from Jakarta, the IMF and World Bank had made it clear that Indonesia’s fiscal rescue would depend on a civilian government’s remaining in place, so the soldiers had gone back to their barracks, and certain generals had flown to other countries, along with suitcases of money.
In the five months since Jakarta had reopened, Charlie and Dagmar had adopted the Bayangan Prajurit school and its kampung. The local grammar school now had new computers and high-speed wireless Internet, and a local clinic had received additional funding. Areas were being paved, and old homes rebuilt. Microloans were being granted to start local businesses. Charlie provided most of the money, with Dagmar as the liaison.
Bayangan Prajurit had helped Dagmar for their own religious reasons, but Charlie and Dagmar wanted them to enjoy their heightened spirituality from a position of material comfort.
“I freely confess that all Charlie’s charity work makes him my moral superior,” Austin said.
“You contribute to charity,” Dagmar said.
“Usually when Charlie tells me where to send the check.”
She smiled. “Nothing wrong with following the advice of a moral superior.”
Austin talked about Wyoming. He’d bought a condominium in Jackson Hole-half a million dollars for twelve hundred square feet-and now he talked about quitting and buying a ranch. Dagmar was faintly surprised he hadn’t yet bought a Stetson, a pair of alligator-skin Tony Lamas, and a big cowboy belt buckle.
“You don’t know how to run a ranch,” Dagmar said.
“Some of the ranchers I’ve met,” Austin said, “you get the idea it can’t be that hard.”
“I can’t picture you up there, I just can’t.”
“Well,” he said, looking at her, “it might be hard getting a good RPG together.”
She sighed. “I miss live gaming,” she said.
“So do I. We should do it sometime.”
She nodded.
“I’ll check with Charlie. Maybe we can commit some nights.”
“After the current ARG is over, okay? It’s absorbing all my energy.”
“If we wait for us all to have time off from work, it’ll be forever.”
Dagmar considered this. “That’s so true.”
“How long has it been since Charlie actually played anything? ”
Dagmar looked blank. “Not since I’ve been back in California.”
“I wonder if he’s played since he crashed Lost Empire.”
Dagmar stared. “Charlie was the one who crashed Lost Empire? ”
Austin was startled.
“You didn’t know it was him and BJ? ”
“No. They didn’t tell me.”
Lost Empire had been a classic fantasy MMORPG that had been brought down by its own rather primitive economic system. The game designers had kept the economy simple, figuring that players would be more interested in killing monsters and performing quests than in becoming entrepreneurs. Some smart trading had resulted in players’ gaining monopolies in basic commodities such as “grain,” “wood,” and “gems,” bringing down the whole system. The result had been a game reset and a lot of players having their money refunded.
Austin looked down at his blue-corn enchiladas. “It wasn’t exactly their greatest hour. Maybe they’re embarrassed.”
“I’m impressed, though. Lost Empire was a pretty good hack.”
Austin seemed dubious. “Don’t tell Charlie that I told you, okay? ”
“Sure.”
After buying lunch, Austin took her back to the Burger Angeleno parking lot to pick up her car. She followed him to Great Big Idea, where he had a meeting with Charlie.
Great Big Idea occupied part of an office tower of ocean-colored glass in the San Fernando Valley, sandwiched between a Chili’s and a Gap on a green bluff overlooking the Ventura Highway. The building was owned by Charlie, or by his company, or his foreign backers-Dagmar was a bit unclear about it. The rest of the building was occupied by AvN Soft, Charlie’s company, the name of which was usually pronounced “Avvensoft.”
Austin was in the atrium, talking on his phone, when Dagmar entered. The atrium rose all eight stories and neatly bisected the building, with offices off balconies to either side. The atrium was filled with greenery and comfortable furniture and had a small coffee shop. A lot of the employees preferred the less impersonal environment of the atrium to their offices, wireless connecting them to their jobs.
“I know we made the benchmarks,” Austin said. “And the next step is the release. So we’ve got to stick with the plan, all right?” There was a pause, and then Austin said, “I’m sure it’s a great idea. But save it for Release 2.0.” His heel tapped with impatience on the imported Finnish porphyry of the atrium floor. “Dude,” he said, “we’ve had this conversation.”
Dagmar waited for the dialogue to end so that she could thank Austin for lunch. Charlie arrived first, padding through the atrium in blue suede Adidas.
Like Austin, Charlie was a Type One Geek, tall and thin, with a balding head. He wore dark-rimmed spectacles, chinos, and a Versace sports shirt of the same pastel shade as Austin’s.
“No,” Austin said firmly. “You’re sticking with the strategic plan. Because if you don’t, I’m going to spank you hard. Got that? ”
Charlie listened with a grin on his face until the conversation was over.
“That wasn’t BJ, was it? ” he asked.
Then there was a moment of awkward silence as he and Austin recalled Dagmar’s relationship with BJ, and then Dagmar reached out to pat Austin’s arm.
“You can say what you like-I haven’t slept with BJ in ten years. Thanks for lunch. I’ve got a meeting of my own. Have a good time.”
She took the elevator to Great Big Idea, which was on the third floor. She had a meeting of her creative team-while she did most of the writing, other people handled Web design, graphic art, audio, video, and the more complex and technical sorts of puzzles for which the form was known. The meeting took place in a boardroom covered with charts and schedules drawn on whiteboard and glittering from plasma screens.
On the largest screen, Dagmar’s mantra glowed, one line following the next on infinite repeat:
Read the Schedule
Know the Schedule
Love the Schedule
The meeting was to make certain that everyone had taken the mantra to heart, and Dagmar was pleased to discover that for once, nothing had gone pear-shaped. Everyone was making the deadlines. The number of people who had joined the game was now more than eight hundred thousand and still climbing.
After the meeting broke up, Dagmar helped herself to a cup of coffee from the machine and walked to the boardroom’s floor-to-ceiling window to gaze across the Ventura Highway to the Santa Monica Mountains, dull brown against the brilliant Cal
ifornia sky.
The players were calling the game Motel Room Blues. Her own name for it was The Long Night of Briana Hall.
Either would do. The important thing was the hundreds of thousands of players, who, if they could be persuaded to join Planet Nine, would quadruple its membership.
She looked down at the parking lot just as Austin started to cross it toward his Corvette. His head was shaded by his Yankees cap, and he carried his keys in one hand.
Dagmar’s attention was caught by motion in a corner of the parking lot-a motorcycle had just bounced across the low concrete berm that separated the AvN parking lot from the Chili’s restaurant next door. The bike accelerated as it moved along the row of cars. It was a green and white Kawasaki, and the rider wore what looked like brand-new riding leathers and a black helmet with a visor. Dagmar could hear the bike’s whine from her third-floor perch.
Austin had heard the machine and had politely stopped to let it pass. Instead the motorcycle slowed and came to a stop, as if the rider were going to ask Austin a question.
The rider drew a pistol from his green and white jacket and shot Austin five times. At each report the glass window rattled in its frame.
Dagmar’s heart lurched with each shot. A scream seemed to crouch somewhere in her throat, ready to spring. She stared as Austin fell, as the biker calmly put away his pistol and accelerated.
Dagmar clawed for her cell phone and tried to punch 911 while still keeping her eyes on the biker. She hit 611 instead.
The biker couldn’t get into the Gap parking lot-there was a fence with a three-foot-high cable stretched across a series of posts-so he turned left at the end of the row of cars and then, almost casually, made his way out of the parking lot and down the frontage road, where he accelerated out of sight.
Dagmar looked down at Austin in the parking lot and felt herself fill with despair.
Her fingers trembled, but she managed 911 on the third try.
CHAPTER ELEVEN This Is Not a Spy
That is so cool, thought Andy. I wonder how they knew I was looking.
Andy-better known by his online handle Joe Clever-was in his James Bond van parked in a strip mall across the highway from AvN Soft and Great Big Idea. The van was a new idea-he’d bought a used Dodge and equipped it for surveillance, with cameras hidden behind two-way-mirror windows, a satellite uplink, a cooler for the Mountain Dew and Red Bull he drank during the course of his researches, and a camp bed for when the caffeine finally wore off. He was divided on the notion of adding a chemical toilet-it would smell, but it meant he didn’t have to abandon his researches to haunt the rest rooms at Starbucks or Burger King.
He’d equipped the van with a number of plastic placards that he could stick to the door with built-in magnets. The current one told observers that the van belonged to Andy’s Electronic Service.
He was considering getting himself a surveillance drone, like those used by the police, highway patrol, and traffic reporters. They were cheap enough to make-just a big model plane with an onboard camera controllable from the ground. He didn’t need one of the fancy ones with the miniturbines.
Maybe, he’d thought, he could mount a launch rail on top of the van.
Andy had been using his Big Ears, bouncing a laser off the boardroom window at Great Big Idea, to listen to Dagmar’s meeting with her team. The reception had been wretched-the van was too far away, on the far side of the highway-and the air-conditioning must have been blowing right onto the window glass, because the sound was horribly distorted. Yet he had caught a few names that were probably characters who would be introduced into the game, and a few interesting phrases like “the cold-data store under the gantry at Mars Port,” which would be a place to pick up a clue if he only knew when it would be there.
He’d have to make sure that Consuelo-his new handle, chosen for this game-would be in the online world of Planet Nine, and at Mars Port under the gantry, at the right time.
If only he’d managed to hear which gantry.
It was while listening to the wild distortions on his Big Ears that he’d first caught sight of the motorcyclist. He was passing up and down the frontage road slowly, keeping an eye on the AvN Soft building the entire way. Andy had watched the rider take note of the CCTV camera above the entrance to the AvN parking lot, and he wondered if the rider had also seen the camera on the front door.
Andy assumed that he had a rival. He wasn’t pleased by this prospect; he very much preferred to be the only Dumpster diver on any game. But the driver seemed a little ill-equipped for espionage. The Kawasaki was nice, but it wasn’t even an anonymous SUV, let alone the spy van that Andy had assembled for himself.
The cyclist had eventually parked himself in the Chili’s parking lot out of sight of any cameras. When he took off his helmet to smoke a cigarette, Andy got out the Pentax and the big zoom lens. The rider was an impressive figure: in his twenties, tall, thick-necked, with big ears and reddish blond hair styled in a flattop. He wore gleaming-new riding leathers and clunky, thick-soled boots, and he looked like an actor playing a heavy.
Which wasn’t necessarily unusual: L.A. was full of underemployed actors. Sometimes, if you ate in restaurants, everyone on the wait staff seemed to be giving auditions.
As Andy took a series of pictures of his rival through the mirrored glass in the van’s rear doors, he reached the conclusion that he’d never seen the man before. A player this dedicated, you’d think Andy would have seen him at a few live events.
Andy noticed that the rider didn’t throw away his cigarette butt, but instead pinched it out and put it in his pocket.
When someone left the AvN Soft building, Andy tracked his camera to the new arrival and lost sight of the cyclist. He recognized Austin Katanyan, whom he knew as one of Charlie Ruff’s business associates who was unconnected with the game business, and when he swung the camera back to the Kawasaki, it was already moving.
The Pentax could take video as well as still pictures, and when he saw the motorcycle slowing down as if the rider wanted to talk to Austin, Andy thumbed the video button and reached for the Big Ears.
And then, to Andy’s utter delight, the rider pulled out a pistol and shot Austin dead. Andy kept the Pentax on the motorcycle until after it had left the parking lot and rocketed away down the frontage road, and then tracked back to where Austin Katanyan had dropped behind a row of cars. Apparently Austin was still there, because the receptionist had just run out of the building and crouched down by the body. Or the “body,” since obviously the assassination was a part of Motel Room Blues.
Whoever was playing the receptionist was a pretty good actress. That wild, distraught look was very convincing.
“This,” Andy said out loud, “is the coolest thing I’ve ever seen! ”
He got busy. He powered up the satellite uplink and uploaded the video onto Video Us. He then logged on to Our Reality Network and posted a link to the video, and then uploaded the still pictures of the assassin to a new topic called “Who Is This Man? ”
It was only when the ambulance arrived and the police began to swarm the area that Andy began to wonder if perhaps he’d made a mistake.
CHAPTER TWELVE This Is Not a Team
“I talked to Austin ’s mother this morning,” Charlie said. “The Red Cross came up with their phone number.”
His voice was raw with lack of sleep and hours of talking to the police.
“I’d never spoken to her in my life,” he said, “and I don’t think she has the slightest idea who I was, but I had to tell her that her son had been killed. And then as soon as I’d gotten through that conversation, the father called. Because the mother told him and he didn’t believe her. Or me. I only know that he was really pissed off and kept yelling. He didn’t believe me until I gave him Detective Murdoch’s phone number, and maybe not even then.”
Charlie lay back in his office chair, drawn eyes gazing sightlessly at the plush Pinky and the Brain dolls sitting atop his monitor. The tastef
ul functionality of his spacious office-huge desk, computer, monitor, and huge video displays-provided a contrast with their owner. Dense stubble coated Charlie’s cheeks and chin, and great sweat patches bloomed beneath the arms of his pastel shirt. The police had been present till after eleven at night, and after that, Charlie had been too busy to leave.
He both looked and smelled as if he’d slept on his office couch, which he had. At midmorning he’d sent his secretary out to buy some new clothes, and there were showers in the exercise room, which he’d use as soon as he had something to change into.
Dagmar did not possess an assistant who would buy clothes for her. She needed to do a laundry and was wearing yesterday’s clothes. She’d thought she’d at least had clean underwear, but apparently she’d miscounted.
“Have you heard anything from the police,” Dagmar asked, “about who did it and why? ”
“The police,” said Charlie, “do not confide in me. But I overheard some of them talking to Murdoch-they said they didn’t get the call early enough to track the killer with their camera drones, so nobody knows who he is or where the hell he went. We looked at the security cams and found out that the one on the door didn’t see anything, and the one at the parking lot entrance saw only the top of the guy’s helmet-so the police are fucking out of luck.”
Charlie waved a listless arm as he spoke, and then let it fall. Dagmar looked at his supine figure.
“Do you need coffee or something? ” she asked.
“Coffee’s all I’ve had for the last dozen hours,” Charlie said. “I can’t look at food right now. The sight of it makes me-well, it doesn’t make me sick, it just makes me not want food.”
“Yeah,” Dagmar said. “I know what you mean.”
She was floating on coffee as well, quarts and quarts of the stuff, and the only food she’d eaten was a piece of dry toast she’d choked down with a handful of vitamins. Unlike Charlie, she’d gotten home the previous night, but she’d barely slept. Every time she closed her eyes she saw a blood-spattered Austin lying on the blacktop, mouth slack and open, the Yankees cap rolled off his head and lying by his hand.
This Is Not a Game Page 12
